Review by Paul Taylor-McCartney of "High Spirits: A Round of Drinking Stories," ed. Karen Stevens and Jonathan Taylor

At first glance, High Spirits appears to be an anthology united by a simple premise: stories in which alcohol plays a central role. Yet what soon becomes apparent is that this is far less a book about drink than it is about the people who drink, and the complicated lives that unfold around them. 

Stevens' and Taylor's comprehensive introduction is a critical essay in itself and hugely informative, in which they argue that "drunkenness is itself often a story," complete with a "beginning ... a middle ... and an end." It is a perceptive observation, for throughout, alcohol is rarely the subject itself. Rather, it becomes the catalyst through which loneliness, desire, memory, grief and hope are revealed.  

The anthology brings together an impressive range of contemporary writers, including both editors, Louis de Bernières, Jenn Ashworth, Alison Moore, Bethan Roberts and Desmond Barry, each bringing a distinctive voice and treatment of the premise. Some stories are comic, others unsettling; some quietly elegiac, others darkly surreal. 

One of its greatest strengths is its refusal to moralise. Drink is neither glamourised nor condemned. Instead, it’s presented as part of ordinary experience: a celebration, a habit, an escape, often a consolation, sometimes the beginning of connection and, more pointedly, the cause of its collapse. The emotional range is striking, allowing humour to sit comfortably beside vulnerability and loss. Jenn Ashworth's "Jackie Kennedy and the Widow" offers an unflinching meditation on grief, while Michael Stewart's "Painting the Walls White" explores memory and disorientation through themes of forgetting and losing one's way. Melanie Whipman's "Tasting Notes" provides another distinctive voice, demonstrating how drink can become less a subject than a lens through which relationships and identity are examined.

What emerges is a portrait of contemporary life in all its contradictions. These are stories of imperfect lives, where moments of celebration sit uneasily alongside loneliness, regret and longing. Shared drinks become occasions for confession, confrontation and reconciliation; solitary ones speak of absence and loss. Throughout, alcohol functions not as the subject but as a catalyst, bringing into sharp relief those fragile aspects of ourselves we usually keep hidden. 

It’s easy to see why High Spirits won the 2019 Saboteur Award for Best Anthology. It matures beautifully as it unfolds. Individual stories possess their own distinct flavour, yet together they create something richer than the sum of their parts. Like a conversation that grows more candid as the evening wears on, these stories remain in the mind long after the final shot, inviting readers back for the richness of their voices and the truths they quietly reveal about what it is to be both human and fallible. Intoxicating stuff. 

About the reviewer
Dr Paul Taylor-McCartney is a writer, researcher and lecturer. His interests include dystopian literature, queer studies, children’s fiction and initial teacher education. His poetry, short fiction and academic articles have appeared in a wide range of print and electronic media, and fiction titles he recently worked on as commissioning editor have won regional readers’ and publishers’ awards. His debut novel, Sisters of the Pentacle, was published by Hermitage Press in 2022, and his first non-fiction title, Cornwall Uncharted: Mapping Cornwall’s Queer History of Concealment, Culture and Creativity was published by The History Press (June 2026), to great acclaim.

Review by Isabelle McIntyre of "Demon Copperhead" by Barbara Kingsolver

If you hadn’t already clocked from the title, Demon Copperhead is inspired by Charles Dickens’ partly autobiographical David Copperfield, published in 1850 and a personal favourite of Dickens among his own novels. Kingsolver has created a truly visionary re-envisioning, following the original plot almost to the letter but in a cleverly modernised format: swapping the workhouse for meth labs, Victorian charity schools for foster care, industrial exploitation for the opioid epidemic, cobblestone streets for Dollar Generals as our protagonist narrates his life from childhood to maturity, chronicling the highs and lows (and they are low) of his upbringing in modern day Appalachia.

Our main character has been dealt an extremely unlucky hand. Just when you think Demon is at rock bottom, the bottom bottoms out. I particularly loved the line "The wonder is that you could start life with nothing, end with nothing, and lose so much in between." Yet what struck me about Demon’s endless struggles was how refreshing it was to see him portrayed, not as a martyr for foster kids or poster-boy for poverty, but as a human being that was often bitter, vengeful, acerbic, and angry at his fate. Through it all, Demon is not perfect, he is fallible, exhausted by the uphill battle of his life, yet always incredibly resilient. For me, the sentiment behind his indomitable spirit hit home in regards to my own experiences in life, from losing my own mother and a plethora of other personal challenges.

For 550 wild and wonderful pages, Demon’s unfortunate reality is your reality. No matter how much we want to pretend that we can keep the bad fortune at bay and protect our privilege through our own virtue, this novel is an intense reminder that we are all at the mercy of sheer dumb luck – and we don’t have to be happy about it, despite what toxic positivity self-help books would tell you. I’d love to personally thank Barbara Kingsolver for writing this nuanced and compassionate book as I genuinely believe it’s one of those novels that changes the way you think forever. Isn’t that what reading books is about? To escape your own life to step into someone else’s shoes, and come back all the better for it. 

About the reviewer
Isabelle McIntyre is a publishing hopeful and currently working as a Bookseller with Waterstones. She reads a wide variety of titles but particularly enjoys literary fiction, with some her of favourite authors including Donna Tartt, Barbara Kingsolver, John Boyne, Lionel Shriver, and Joanna Glen. She has a BA in Politics and Spanish and takes pleasure in engaging with a range of international and political perspectives in her reading and the Substack blog she writes, Read Receipts.

Review by Isabelle McIntyre of "East of Eden" by John Steinbeck

East of Eden is one of the most divisive modern classics going. Its intensity has created two opposing camps - those who love it, and those who hate it – for there is simply no middle ground when it comes to this legendary family saga. I confess myself firmly in the "love it" camp, devouring the whopping 700 pages in just under two weeks and it has remained in my mind ever since. 

I would argue that the beauty of this novel is its pacing. It’s long – in fact, the vast majority of East of Eden is a garrulous and digressive labyrinth of several generations of side plots, monologuing, and contextual development. Yet, in our impatient modern world where we need everything faster and faster, craving instant gratification and battling ever shorter attention spans, East of Eden takes its time. It plods. It meanders. It stands atop the hill and enjoys the view. 

Specifically, the view of the Salinas Valley. One of the most primary and widely acknowledged achievements of East of Eden is its ability to bottle the sights, sounds, and smells of the Californian "salad bowl" region, so named because of its agricultural wonders and fertile soil. Steinbeck had a deep love of place, endeavouring to capture on the page both the breath-taking scenery of his homeland, as well as the human history behind the hardships of a rural existence and the complexities of agrarian development. In the two major families in East of Eden, the Trasks and the Hamiltons, Steinbeck weaves personal history with the broader narrative of the region. Despite having never set foot in the state, I was overwhelmed with a sensory overload of the Salinas Valley through his poetic homage to the area, starting from the very first page. 

I also adored the sprawling, tapestry-esque depiction of families, with all their flaws and quirks and eccentricities. I gasped aloud at the descriptions of the characters, because it was as if I was hearing my own abstract thoughts articulated into beautiful, expressive prose. I had shivers at the idea that a person who died half a century before I was even born could possibly have written down a thought that I had once had, whose words could speak to a feeling I imagined only I knew.

Furthermore, I think the overwhelming spiritual essence of the book is its defining feature. For me, it transcends your everyday books into the realm of the classic, the American mythos, the literary greats. It feels almost primordial. East of Eden is about interrogating human nature and finding the abiding human spirit, and that is simply a big old topic, and it feels deep and intense despite the whimsical prose and eccentric characters. Steinbeck carries you along his narrative river, sweeping you up in the gentle flow of rich world-building, and then drops you off the edge of the metaphorical waterfall with a bewildering, visceral nugget of wisdom that elevates this book far beyond a restrictive literary agenda.

In summary, I loved East of Eden. Straight to the top 5. It did everything a book should - it made me laugh, made me cry, made me think, most importantly it made me feel. It’s inspired me to read more modern classics and release them from the shackles of sleepy English Literature classes world over, because this book felt modern, important, and completely unique.

About the reviewer
Isabelle McIntyre is a publishing hopeful and currently working as a Bookseller with Waterstones. She reads a wide variety of titles but particularly enjoys literary fiction, with some her of favourite authors including Donna Tartt, Barbara Kingsolver, John Boyne, Lionel Shriver, and Joanna Glen. She has a BA in Politics and Spanish and takes pleasure in engaging with a range of international and political perspectives in her reading and the Substack blog she writes, Read Receipts.

Review by Jasper Sygrove of "The Cherry Tree Theory" by Rich & Rox Pink

The Cherry Tree Theory is a beautifully written and deeply reflective book, which uses the real-time revival of a once-dying cherry tree as a powerful metaphor for personal growth and healing. After moving in together, Rich and Rox Pink revisit some of the darkest chapters of their lives, while pouring their love into nurturing a rich, fruitful garden. The Cherry Tree Theory creates a moving parallel between nature’s resilience and the human capacity to recover, adapt, and thrive.

The metaphors woven throughout the book are thoughtful, relatable, and leave you with plenty to reflect on. From setting healthy boundaries to rebuilding after difficult experiences, the lessons feel authentic and nuanced. The story gently reminds us that growth is rarely linear, but with patience, care, and perseverance, it's possible to create the future we've always hoped for.

While everyone's experiences are different and not every story will resonate with every reader, the underlying message is universal: there is always light at the end of the tunnel. I finished this book feeling inspired, motivated, and more optimistic about embracing life's challenges. This is a heartfelt, uplifting read that lingers in your thoughts long after you've turned the final page.

If you're curious but not quite ready to dive into the book, Rich and Rox Pink have also created a short companion episode as part of their podcast series "Late Bloomers," with each chapter summarised in 60 seconds or less. It's a brilliant introduction that offers a flavour of what's to come, without giving away the heart of the journey.

About the reviewer
Jasper Sygrove is a 27-year-old trans content creator, music producer, and cosplayer, with a lifelong passion for all things nerdy. From TV shows and movies, to video games and books, Jasper loves discovering and discussing the stories that leave a lasting impression. As a new reviewer, Jasper is excited to share honest, thoughtful reviews, and connect with others who enjoy exploring the worlds of entertainment and storytelling.

Review by Jonathan Wilkins of "Monstrum" by Lottie Mills

I read Lottie Mills’ debut collection Monstrum in a couple of sittings. The stories are that good! They explore what is monstrous, and what we may perceive as otherness. They challenge the reader and society to re-examine all of our deep rooted assumptions. Every single beautifully crafted story is an eerie, gripping and alluring message to our world. And each is unequivocally strong in its own right, unique but connected through the theme of disability and the monstrous, because Mills shows us that being different doesn’t mean we are worse than what might be perceived as the norm. It might be that Monstrum isn’t for every reader, but it is worth every reader having a go. 

"The Mirror" shows a young girl doing the shopping for her supposedly monstrous mistress. Through her small acts of kindness, she makes the relationship work and rejects this conception of monstrosity. There is an implied sexual relationship in the story, and a poignant ending. 

"The Changeling," the opening story, sticks with the reader long after they finish and we can see why it was a prize winner. It’s a sublime, ethereal tale about deformity and physical change, and asks what are our expectations of what we see as normal. The writing is evocative and clear. 

In "The Cuckoo," as the title implies, we are confronted by a strange child who infiltrates a household, and removes the protagonist from her own life with weird ease. This is psychological horror story demonstrating the terror of being replaced, unseen, unprotected. 

"The Body" features a particularly belligerent attitude towards disability. It is set in a world where you can ask for, or purchase a new body. The main character in this story finds it difficult to let go of her old body and struggles to cope with the physical changes that come with a new non-disabled body. When she uses her old wheelchair, it is a particularly discordant moment. She finds that her new, whole body no longer has the muscle memory her original one had, and she is forced to relearn much of what used to be  habitual, her own "normal." Mills never takes the easy way out. She examines how this is not an easy solution and the myriad struggles that it brings with it. The main character is confronted when others find out about her original disabled body, and the complex relationship she now has with the new body.

Mills has shown the reader a world where inhumanity often comes from the ordinary, and where we can see kindness and warmth in those that we have been taught to fear. The result is a beautifully strong collection of stories that are heartbreaking at times as well as being intellectually rigorous, and written in prose that is so pure that it is almost perfection. Monstrum is a critical, politically sensitive piece of disability literature disguised as gothic nightmare, grotesque theatre. Mills invites us into her darkness, and we cannot escape, demanding we see the beauty, potential, power and provocation flourishing there. It is a dazzling, remarkable debut.

About the reviewer
Jonathan Wilkins is 69. He is married to the gorgeous Annie with two wonderful sons. He was a teacher for twenty years, a Waterstones’ bookseller and coached women’s basketball for over thirty years before taking up writing seriously. Nowadays he takes notes for students with Special Needs at Leicester and Warwick Universities. He has had a work commissioned by the UK Arts Council and several pieces published traditionally as well as on-line. He has had poems in magazines and anthologies, art galleries, studios, museums and at Huddersfield Railway Station. He loves writing poetry. For his MA, he wrote a crime novel, Utrecht Snow. He followed it up with Utrecht Rain, and is now writing a third part. He is currently writing a crime series, Poppy Knows Best, set at the end of the Great War and into the early 1920s.